One Day, You'll All Work For Me
by caffeineandcrayons
Summary: Inspired by Kurt's infamous line in the Pilot episode; how Finn, Puck and Karofsky really do end up working for him. Well, sort of. Kurt/Blaine, Rachel/Finn


_a/n: This little fic was inspired by the Kurt's infinitely contemptuous line in the Pilot episode. So, here's my take on how Puk, Finn and Karofsky really do end up working for him. Well, sort of.  
I wrote this before season 4 aired and then completely forgot about it's existence, so if some parts seem a little out of date, don't worry, I know ;)  
Anyways, enjoy.  
_

**_'One day, you'll all work for me.'_**

* * *

**Puck**

The first house Kurt and Blaine buy together is pretty perfect, they agreed.

The location couldn't be more ideal- it's close enough to Manhattan that Kurt can still travel to work okay, even if he does have to wake up at 05:45 to get there on time, but it's far enough away from the chaotic, bustling heart of the city to distance themselves from the crazy traffic, tourists and the brunt of the gun crime.

And it has a garden. Admittedly, only a small one but after living in a box of an apartment for so long, it could pass for Eden in their eyes.

Yes, it really is the perfect place to raise a child.

They keep the scan photo, the first picture of their baby girl, in a tiny pink frame on the mantelpiece. Whenever Blaine is at work and Kurt is left alone, left with the silence of no one to sing impromptu duets with (or snark at), he often finds himself staring at that photo. Sometimes though, he isn't sure if he's more happy about baby, oh God, their _baby_ or the mantelpiece itself because it is so, so nice to have a proper fireplace again. A proper family home.

Kurt had thought, once upon a time, after he failed to get into NYADA not once, but twice and not only that, when Blaine, the person he loved, admired and envied most in the world had been offered a place, well, he'd thought his life was pretty much over.

But by some miracle he'd not only managed to push aside his jealously, and find a new career road to walk down, he'd found a new dream. This dream was so much more simple that the last; Broadway and fame and intense vocal coaching and endless lines of autographs to sign.

This dream was just- well, a family home with a real fireplace, a ring from Blaine on his finger (and one from him on Blaine's) and a baby on the way.

Who needs applause from strangers when every morning you wake up feeling so utterly, completely loved?

In their new kitchen, Kurt made tea. He'd usually do so in a pot, the traditional English way of days long gone, when guests were over but he knew this would just be wasted on Puck so why bother? Besides, today Puck wasn't technically a guest. Rather, an employee.

Puck's pool cleaning business, the one he started way back in high school, went from strength to strength, who would have thought it? So much so that he'd decided to branch out into landscape design and gardening. A pursuit, Kurt noticed wryly, that was creative enough to satisfy his artistic ex-Glee side, whilst being masculine enough for him to still look like a _real _man.

The garden looked like a bomb had hit it. Soil and stacks of empty plant pots everywhere, discarded nails left over from the decking and there, right in the middle of it all, Puck crouching like a cave man with a bag full of seed packets and a trowel.

Oh God._ Why_ had he agreed to this?

_We should help him out. That's what friends are for, right?_ Blaine's voice had been soft in his ear just before he'd left for work. _He's only doing this for Beth. He wants more time with her but Shelby won't let him until he shows he's responsible enough. You can't expect her to trust him to be a father figure if he's chasing everything in a skirt. He needs the work._  
_  
Blaine, damn you and your niceness, I am going to kill you when you get home. _

He sets the teacup (two sugars, no way was he putting Puck's usual four in there) down on their new, half built bench.

Puck stands, knees cracking and saunters over, dusting off his hands. "Thanks, man."  
Kurt winces as Puck's hands, black with dirt, envelope the clean white china. Puck however is as oblivious to hygiene as ever and looks over his handiwork from a distance, seemingly with a degree of pride.

Kurt feels like sobbing. "Please tell me it'll get better."

"Huh? Yeah. I mean, I've only levelled it out, it's not like I've planted anything yet." He grins "Why, did you honestly think I'm that bad?"

"No. No, not at all."

Puck shook his head, still grinning as he watches Kurt sit gingerly on the bench.

"How's Beth?"

Puck shrugs. "Still a teenager. I dunno what happened, when she was little it was easy. Well, not easy. _Easier_. But it's like overnight she turned into this, this girl with mood swings and all she wants to walk about is pop singers I've never even heard of. I mean, what's wrong with Billy Joel and Kiss, right?"

Kurt couldn't help smile. "All children have to grow up eventually."

"Yeah, I know that." Puck shrugs again. "Just where did the time go, man? Seems like it was only about a week ago we were in Glee club begging Mr Schue not to make us sing any more Journey songs." He shrugs again "Just make sure when you get your little one, you appreciate the bit where they can't talk back to you."

"I'll be sure to." Kurt says dryly "Sleepless nights and diapers sound so much better than her having a personality."

"Whatever, man. But when she's out 'til eleven on a school night and won't answer your calls, don't expect me not to say 'I told you so', okay?"

* * *

**Karofsky**

Kurt stands in the bedroom, checking his reflection, then double checking and feeling oddly nervous. Tonight, they're going out for dinner- a rare thing these days since they're both so busy with work and Kimya and arguing over whether or not they should get a dog (Blaine is adamant that they should, dogs are awesome and the fluffier the better, while Kurt is more concerned with said fluff sticking to their new furniture).

A real dinner to celebrate their 15 year anniversary. Sure they've only been married eight, but fifteen years.

_Fifteen years_.

Fifteen years and almost half their lives, certainly their entire adult lives. So Kurt's own nervousness puzzles him.

Fifteen years of Blaine seeing him at his absolute worst, not just his best and of knowing him inside out. Yet here he is, unbuttoning and rebuttoning his waistcoat and, hat or no hat?

There's a soft knock at the door. "Kurt?"

"Yes?" In his own ears, he sounds sharper than he intended, frantic.

Dave pushes the door wide and gives him an apologetic smile. "Sorry. Just, Blaine's sort of freaking out downstairs. He thinks you're not coming or something." He looks at him warily. "You are, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course I am. I just…" he trails off.

Dave says nothing, just patiently leans against the doorframe as if he's thinking _you're an idiot, Hummel._ Sometimes Kurt thinks he prefers the old Karofsky of high school, the mouthy dumb footballer, over this calm adult version who knows him too well.

"I don't know." Kurt turns the hat over in his hands, fidgeting with the brim. "I'm not seventeen any more."

"So? Being seventeen isn't everything, you know? I was an asshole for one thing. But when you're seventeen… You can't buy a gorgeous house and get married and design clothes for Ralph Lauren. Can't adopt a baby either."

Kurt smiles faintly. "You have a point."

David nods, looking pretty smug. "Of course. By the way, definitely wear the hat."

Kurt listens to David's feet descending the stairs as he turns back to the mirror and settles the rather fabulous top hat at a slightly raunchy angle. He really must be nervous if he can't even make basic fashion choices for himself.

Blaine is hovering anxiously by the front door when Kurt finally comes down.

And why the Hell had he taken so long in the bedroom? What had been stopping him from running to spend more time with this gorgeous man? His husband. His best friend. Sometimes Kurt barely believed it was real.

No matter how late he is, Kurt can always trust Blaine to greet him with a smile.  
"There you are. I've been waiting for you forever."

"I'm sorry. I just…" Kurt shrugged. "It was the hat's fault."

Blaine chuckles. "Of course. I should have known."

How was it even possible that Blaine at thirty one was more attractive than he was at sixteen, or at twenty, at any other age? Weren't people meant to become less attractive as they matured? They weren't meant to… to…

He was devastatingly handsome in a tight fitting white shirt and dark pants, a duck egg blue bow tie fastened neatly under his collar, because old habits die hard. Kurt was sure he'd be wearing them well into his later years.

Blaine was still young, but laughter lines were starting to grow in the corners of his dark eyes. Tiny, physical signs of their time together that had flown by so quickly. _Have I made you laugh enough for it to change you, to maybe make those lines run a little deeper, or to make you walk a little taller? Because I know you've changed me._ And how was that… How could that be so… So much?

"Kurt, is something wrong?" Blaine was looking at him with concern now.

Kurt shakes his head, and moves closer, close enough to press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. "No, nothing."

"Okay," Blaine tilts his head so their noses brush, eskimo style.

From further down the hallway, Dave coughs politely. "If you're going to go, now might be a good time before Kimmie wakes up."

"Sure, thank you." Blaine's voice is soft at the mention of their daughter.

"No problem." Karofsky raises his hand as he sees Kurt take a quick, sharp breath to stop him from speaking. "The list of emergency phone numbers is on the fridge and her formula is in the cupboard. Her favourite toy is that pink rabbit so give her that if she cries. Changing stuff is in the nursery. I know, I know. Just go have fun already."

"Thanks, David. We'll be back around ten thirty. If you need anything-"  
"Call you, I know."

As they head towards the taxi parked outside, Kurt feels Blaine's fingers slide into his. And he thinks, if only he could go back in time and tell his seventeen year old self just how perfect life can be.

* * *

**Finn**

Finn thinks about Rachel more than he thinks about his father. He never really knew his dad after all.

He knows an old, long-gone armchair that he used to press his nose into when he was a kid, to try and smell what cologne he might have worn.

He knows the face in photographs, always still and always smiling, with the exception of the ones his mum took when they were on holiday, years before Finn was born, with his dad walking through Canadian trees, his eyes raised like a flower looking for the sun.

He knows the dusty plaid shirts, now boxed up in the attic, right beside the boxes of Kurt's mom's old clothes.

But he knows Rachel so, so well.

He knows the warmth of her body against his on cold winter nights, knows her quick, straight-backed stride, like she's always got this unshakeable sense of purpose. He knows the long, shiny hairs she leaves wrapped around the teeth of his comb. Knows her clean floral smell, mint breath, tears, voice, breath.

He misses her in a way that both weighs him down and lifts him up, like he can go on to better, higher things. He can. For Rachel, he can.

He thinks of home. That pristine New York city apartment with matching His and Hers face cloths.  
He thinks of sneaking out of bed at 4:30am to catch his flight. He knows Rachel well enough by now to know that saying goodbye to her before his deployment will only make her hysterical.

He thinks of the niece he has yet to meet. Kurt sent him a letter in his fancy script writing that Finn can barely read.

"_In the Hummel tradition of ignoring the gender of names, her middle name is Finn. Blaine says it's unisex anyway and if he wants to think that I won't burst his bubble. Kimya Finn Hummel-Anderson. I can't wait for you to meet her, Finn. She's incredible."_

He thinks of his mom, laughing over the dinner table. Scolding him for getting a detention with soap from the dishes coming right up to her elbows. On her feet and cheering at every single one of his high school football games.

He thinks of Burt, sitting back in an entirely different armchair, commenting on a quarter back's technique. At the garage, with grease stains and oil on his hands and embedded forever under his fingernails.

Finn wonders when he stopped fighting for his dad's memory, and started fighting for his family's safety. He isn't really sure. He's not sure of many things, but he thinks… Maybe, maybe if he's doing this to protect them… Maybe, being in the army isn't all that bad.


End file.
